


Mine, By Any Other Name

by fellowshipper



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Banter, Bonding, Canon Related, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Happy Ending, Humor, Love, M/M, One Shot, Plot What Plot, Pre-Canon, Romance, Roommates in Love, Schoolboys, Sexual Content, Short, Slice of Life, Teenagers, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 12:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellowshipper/pseuds/fellowshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They never made it to midnight.  They had shared three holiday seasons now and not one of them had ended with the predictable drunken kiss at midnight on New Year’s Eve. Bobby/John. One Shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine, By Any Other Name

 

            They never made it to midnight.  They had shared three holiday seasons now and not one of them had ended with the predictable drunken kiss at midnight on New Year’s Eve.  The first one had come only a couple months after John’s arrival at the school, before Bobby had managed to talk him into playing nice with the other students rather than verbally ripping them to shreds before setting their shoes on fire.  The traditional school-wide holiday party, then, was out of the question.  The second New Year’s hadn’t fared much better.  Bobby had caught the flu a couple days before and spent the entire night shivering and sweating in his bed, unaware that John stayed up the entire night dabbing at his head with a cool washcloth.  Then there was this year, which found them yet again hiding out in their room, drinking the beer John had stolen from the refrigerator in the staff lounge, avoiding the noise of their fellow students partying downstairs.  Part of the night was spent mocking overrated pop stars lip synch to their overrated hits and the million or so frozen New Yorkers stupidly putting up with the weather to watch them.  Then at some point (Bobby’s memory got a little fuzzy after the third beer) John said the hell with it, straddled Bobby where they had been lounging on his bed watching TV, and started stripping them both.  Bobby was okay with that.

            Bobby was very, very okay with that, in fact, and he was deeply grateful for the partiers in the rec room being loud enough to cover up the occasional moan or curse forced out between gritted teeth.  Even the usual noise of the bedsprings shifting beneath his and John’s weight was swallowed by the party downstairs, which only served to make John go faster, harder, more frantic than normal when they were trying to be quiet.  Bobby was okay with that, too.  He wasn’t much into noisy sex himself, but he had to admit that it was hotter than hell when John did it.  And God, did John love to hear himself in bed.  It had been strange and off-putting at first, Bobby thought, because that was something he’d always associated with terrible porn and movies with couples who were too perfect to ever exist in real life.  Then he’d learned just what to do, where to touch, how to move, to get just the right response and leave John a senseless, jabbering mess.  That was his favorite thing to do in bed.  The dirty talk—and John could be exceedingly filthy when he wanted, things coming out of his deceptively angelic-looking mouth that still sometimes took Bobby off guard—was great and all, and it never failed to wind Bobby up and beg for more, but what really did it for him was when John finally shut up and was no longer capable of real speech.  Typically just noises, animalistic grunts and groans and unintelligible murmurs that might have started out as words.  Bobby loved that.

            Head tipped back until his scalp was almost perpendicular to the mattress, mouth agape, legs squeezing desperately around John’s hips, fingers curled sharply into John’s shoulders, Bobby allowed himself to indulge in a way he never would have dared under normal circumstances.  He reached out to cup the back of John’s head, fingers threading through his hair, while his other arm hooked under John’s to drag him closer. “Fuck!” he cried, following that up with a surprised gasp when John thrust in again, and Bobby instinctively picked up his own pace, pushing back more urgently as though he couldn’t get close enough.  The net result, besides twisting just enough to let John hit a slightly different angle that nudged Bobby that much closer to the edge, was to send John himself into a tailspin.  Pupils dilated, a red flush spreading from his face halfway down his chest, John grunted something that Bobby didn’t quite catch.  Game on. 

            “J-Johnny,” he stammered, squeezing around John and drawing another pathetic noise from him, “John, fuck, fuckfuck _fuck_ , baby, right there . . .”  Just because Bobby wasn’t much of a talker during sex didn’t mean he was totally opposed to it, especially not when doing so seemed to short-circuit John’s brain and make him start thrusting wildly, losing his rhythm as he neared his peak.  “Right there,” Bobby whispered again, grinning to himself when John started mumbling in tongues or whatever it was that he did when he got so wired he couldn’t even think properly anymore.  He was so caught up in watching and listening to John’s reaction that he completely missed his own body’s cues; orgasm hit him twice as hard as it would have anyway, taking him by surprise and causing every muscle in his body to tense up.  That tension was evidently the last straw for John as well, and after another few frenzied thrusts he tipped his head back and let out a guttural moan at the ceiling, no longer restricted by the need to be mindful of sleeping neighbors. 

            Trembling and struggling to steady his breathing, John withdrew to tie off the condom and drop it into the trash can by the bed.  Bobby winced slightly as he sat up, figuring that John was going to go hang out by the window for his usual post-sex cigarette and planning to take a quick shower in the meantime, but he grinned when John simply turned and fell backwards onto the bed, a supremely satisfied look on his face that Bobby never got tired of seeing.  It wasn’t the same smug, irritating smirk that drove pretty much everyone else up the wall, nor was it the wry, seductive grin that John deliberately used to sway people to his side because for all his many faults, he was exceptionally talented at manipulating those around him into doing whatever he wanted.  The expression wasn’t either of those, but one of mere contentment and ease, one which Bobby reasoned no one else ever got to see.  Teachers and students alike dismissed John as a troubled, wasted talent at best, or a dangerous, hateful maniac at worst.  He was all of those things at various times and to varying degrees, but Bobby alone knew there was so much more than what anyone else saw.  He was very intelligent, to begin with, far smarter than his devil-may-care attitude (and his grades, for that matter) suggested.  One of the teachers had made the mistake of praising his writing ability once, which had only encouraged John to purposefully dumb down his assignments in the future to avoid calling unwanted attention to himself.  Bobby, though, had fought a long and difficult battle to finally be rewarded permission to read some of John’s work, the short stories and character studies he wrote when he needed a break from school.  Before, he thought John was just being spiteful and childish in hiding or even sabotaging his writing assignments, but as he read more of John’s personal writings, the things he wrote for himself and no one else, the things he usually kept hidden or burned afterward, he knew he was being allowed a very intimate look at a side of John that probably no one else had even dared to imagine was there.  John wrote with passion and a seemingly effortless skill that left Bobby dumbfounded; sure, he was good with numbers, but to him that wasn’t really anything spectacular.  There was a formula for everything and rules to be followed, and despite what some overzealous math nerds claimed, it really was more science than art as he saw it.  He had far less confidence in his abilities to string words together in anything like a creative and engaging manner, and to see John do it so easily, create whole worlds out of nothing, was damned impressive.

            More than that, Bobby mused, allowing himself another grin as he dropped back down onto the bed next to John, John could be kind and even sweet in his own unorthodox ways.  He wouldn’t admit it, naturally, and Bobby didn’t mention it, but he was acutely aware of how clingy John could be in bed, refusing to go longer than a few seconds without _some_ part of his body touching Bobby’s.  He shunned most physical contact the rest of the time, even from Bobby, but now and then Bobby awoke to find a too-warm body curled tightly against his, unable to move for the arms around him or the legs tangled up with his own.  While it wasn’t necessarily always earth shattering, the sex was at least always _good_ , and despite John’s general impatience and obvious greater level of experience, he’d initially made it a point to take things slow so that Bobby didn’t get hurt or freak out or both.  Even now, though, long after Bobby had learned what to expect and crave, sometimes John was just in a _mood_ and set a slow, languid pace that even left Bobby, he of nearly infinite patience, writhing and moaning pitifully for John to hurry up and get them off already.  And sometimes, while Bobby pretended to sleep afterward, he felt John’s fingers playing lightly with his hair and trailing down the back of his neck, over his shoulder, occasionally the barely-there impression of his mouth as he dropped a kiss to the top of Bobby’s head.  They had never actually exchanged I-love-yous, but that was kind of a moot point as far as Bobby was concerned.  John may have been a powerful wordsmith, but his actions said far more and on a far deeper level than anything he could ever verbally express.  As for Bobby, well, any fool with eyes, ears, or a pulse knew where he stood on the issue.

            “Geopolitical ramifications of another horrible financial year, or Megan Fox’s tits?”

            Bobby, suddenly aware that John was speaking to him, blinked and then furrowed his brow in confusion.  “What?”

            “You’re thinking pretty damn hard about something.  Figured it had to be something important, and to be honest, I’m not sure which I’m more offended knowing you’re thinking of when we’re having sex.”  As Bobby spluttered an incoherent protest, John gave a heavy, exaggerated sigh.  “I mean, I’d like to think I’m more interesting than economics, but you could at least pick a slightly less skanky bimbo to fantasize about.”

            “Shut up,” Bobby ordered finally, the grin returning to his face as he leaned over for a kiss, then fitted himself neatly into all the dips and lines of the side of John’s body that he knew so well, casually draping an arm over John’s stomach and running his toes along the leg closest to him.  Granted a pleased, gentle moan for his efforts, Bobby began trailing soft, lazy kisses wherever he could reach without actually having to move, which kept him in a fairly tight circle until he heaved himself up onto his elbow.  John watched, clearly intrigued, as Bobby repositioned himself so that he lay partially on top of John’s upper body, enough that he could kiss and lick all around John’s chest without too much effort.

            “Lazy bitch,” John teased, drawing in a sharp breath when Bobby began circling a tongue around a nipple and reached between them to just graze his fingertips across the still too-sensitive head of John’s cock.  “Don’t think I’m ready for round two just yet.”

            “Then shut up,” Bobby repeated, and this time John complied, apparently happy to just let Bobby continue his exploration.  Bobby had just reached the lightly defined muscles of John’s stomach—and God, what a change that was from the gangly, pitifully skinny kid John had first arrived at the school looking like—when the noise from downstairs made him look up at the television.  It had been completely forgotten for some time, so it was still on whatever banal ball dropping program they had been watching earlier, and Bobby stretched up for another kiss just as the timer reached zero and the crowd on TV, along with the gathering of students downstairs, erupted into cheers and an uneven chorus of ‘Happy New Years.’

            “Happy New Year, baby,” he said quietly when he pulled away from the kiss, only to find John staring at him with a look somewhere between charmed and annoyed.  An odd combination, to be sure, but John was a master at drawing that reaction out of everyone around him, just as much as he was capable of turning it back around on his own.

            “Don’t call me that.”

            It wasn’t said with any kind of anger, which clearly meant John was feeling up for a frisky verbal sparring session that Bobby was happy to oblige.  He’d always suspected that that was a big reason why he and John, against all odds, had gotten along so well in the first place, simply because Bobby could hold his own in any war of wits.  Sure, John relied much more heavily on biting sarcasm and caustic remarks that could have flayed the toughest skin, but generally speaking he and Bobby always finished in a draw.

            “I always call you baby.”

            John rolled his eyes, still in a good natured way but clearly edging closer to the irritated end of the emotional spectrum.  “Yeah, I know.  Can that be your New Year’s resolution?  To quit?”

            “Why?” Bobby asked, deciding to take the innocent approach just to see how long John could make it before snapping.  “What’s wrong with ‘baby’?”

            “It’s just . . . it’s fucking weird.  S’what rappers call their . . . hoes.  Or whatever,” John added with an expression that perfectly mirrored how odd the word sounded in his mouth.

            Bobby laughed, shaking his head.  “Wow.  Clearly you missed your calling as a thug.”

            “Fuck you.”  But the smirk crossing John’s lips was enough indication that he was settling into the easy rhythm that his and Bobby’s debates usually took.  Or maybe it was because Bobby kept up the innocent act, still dropping light kisses across John’s jawbone, his throat, down further until he could scrape his teeth just hard enough to register across the shoulder. 

            “What do you want me to call you, then?”

            “Let’s go with John.  That’s a pretty safe, normal, ordinary name.”

            Bobby picked his head up, nose wrinkled somewhat in distaste.  “It’s boring.”

            “Says the guy named Robert.  How many cool people in history can you think of named Robert?  Robert Louis Stevenson.  That’s it.”

            The innocent façade began to crumble as Bobby snickered.  “What? Robert Louis Stevenson?  Seriously, that’s all you got?”

            John paused to think for a moment, then added cheerfully, “Robert Frost,” offering a cheeky grin in response to Bobby’s glare.  “Kids’ adventure stories and pun-worthy Reader’s Digest shit.  I rest my case.”

            “Right, ‘cause having the world’s most boring name is better.”

            “Hey,” John shot back, feigning offense.  “John Milton.  John Lennon.  John F. Kennedy.”

            Bobby stared back at John, one eyebrow skeptically arched.  “John Wilkes Booth.  John Wayne Gacy.  John Dillinger.  Congratulations, you’ve got a legacy of serial killers attached to your fake, _boring_ name.”

            “Booth wasn’t—”

            “Shut up,” Bobby ordered as he pushed in for another kiss, temporarily distracting John with a skillful tongue.  After a couple seconds of consideration, though, John leaned his head back and scowled at Bobby.

            “What the hell, man?  My name isn’t fake.”

            “It’s not your _real_ name.”

            “Yeah, well, by that definition, neither is yours, so suck it.”

            Both eyebrows lifted now, waggling a bit in heavy-handed flirtation.  “Maybe in a few minutes there, Speedy.”  Bobby leaned down to suck at the hollow of John’s throat, then looked up, eyes glinting mischievously.  “Hey, what if I called—”

            “Finish that sentence and that’s it, no more sex.  Ever.”

            Momentarily defeated, though still sniggering to himself at the thought of calling John ‘Speedy,’ Bobby worked his way down John’s chest again, taking a break from the banter long enough to make John squirm.  That might have had more to do with his mouth than the silence, admittedly.

            “What about honey?”

            “Don’t you even fucking dare.”

            “Sweetie?” Bobby followed up immediately, crawling the rest of the way over onto John until he was kneeling with a knee on either side of the other boy’s body.  “Snookums?”

            “If you ever call me any of those, I will torch everything you own while you sleep, up to and including you.”

            “What’s wrong, Pooky?  Are you cranky?”

            John’s eyes went large and nearly perfectly round, and he was fighting against the urge to burst into uncontrollable laughter.  “I swear to God, Drake—”

            “Mmm.”  Not sure what that was supposed to mean, Bobby cracked up at the look John gave him and dissolved into a fit of giggles himself, leaning down atop his roommate and burying his face against John’s neck.  Unnaturally hot hands settled on his back, holding him close, and Bobby let out a comfortable sigh as the laughter subsided and he felt John kneading into his back muscles.  “Darlin’?”

            “God, no.”  John shot that one down almost before it fully left Bobby’s lips.  “Wolverine calls some of the girls that.  And, uh, that’s a mental image I really don’t want in my head when we’re doing it, Bobby.”

            “Oh, sick,” Bobby whined with a look on his face that almost perfect mirrored John’s.

            “Hey, don’t blame me.  Go blame the psychotic lumberjack instead.”

            “Yeah, good idea.  I’ll go pick a fight with a Terminator because he’s putting dirty thoughts in my boyfriend’s head.”  Bobby paused to consider how that sounded, a thoughtful look overtaking him as though he was taking it as a serious option.  “I wonder who’d get the worst part of that deal, though.”

            John, genuinely surprised, began laughing all over again.  “Jesus Christ, you’re fucked up.”

            “Well, I _know_ I can blame you for that one,” Bobby answered quickly, even though he couldn’t resist laughing as well when he noticed John beaming proudly up at him.  “Oh!  Got it.” Bobby leaned up again, giving John the perfect angle to slide his hands down to Bobby’s hips, then to his thighs, gliding up and down in an unconscious gesture that still somehow seemed perfectly calculated to derail Bobby’s whole train of thought.  It almost worked.  “I know what I can call you,” Bobby tried again, focusing on John’s eyes, half-lidded and smoldering in that way he always got when he was imagining Bobby in some wicked position and about thirty seconds away from making it reality.  “Mine.”

            That seemed to snap John right out of it, and the creeping arousal that had been there was immediately replaced with disbelief.  To his credit, he really did try to keep from laughing right in Bobby’s face, but the battle was lost the instant he felt his lips quirking into a vaguely derisive smirk.  “That is the dumbest fucking thing I have ever heard, Drake.  And coming from you, that’s saying a hell of a lot.”

            Bobby, unfazed by John’s utter lack of willingness to cooperate, shrugged.  “True, though.”  Maybe it wasn’t a total waste, though, because Bobby noted happily to himself that John went quiet and ponderous for a few seconds, his hands still gently massaging Bobby’s thighs.

            “Okay.  One condition, though.  It goes both ways.”

            That was unexpected, and Bobby had gotten pretty good at predicting John’s next movements, so it took him a moment to realize that John was being completely serious and not just snarking as usual.  Smiling, Bobby leaned down to kiss John again, properly this time, deep and slow in a way John normally resisted because he was too anxious to hurry things along.  He reached out to stroke John’s hair back out of his face, then let his fingers drift across John’s face, body memory recalling all the little lines and scars he’d committed to memory a long time ago: the sharp line of his nose, the strong jaw, a bit stubbly because John hated shaving and avoided it until the facial hair became too noticeable.  There was a very faint, raised scar just at the edge of his hairline, supposedly from a bad fall off a bike as a child; Bobby had never outwardly questioned that story even though he didn’t believe it for a second, but that didn’t keep him from touching it and eliciting a tiny shudder from John.

            When the kiss ended, Bobby cradled the side of John’s face in one hand, stroking his thumb across his boyfriend’s cheek and leaning their foreheads together.  “You know better than that, Johnny.  I’ve always been yours.”  Ugh, really?  No wonder John constantly gave him crap over being a sentimental idiot.  Still, as embarrassing as it was to realizing what he said, Bobby was nonetheless telling the truth.  Not that this seemed to matter all that much to John, who groaned and shoved Bobby off of him.

            “Oh my God, Drake, you are _such_ a fucking girl.”

            Bobby might have been a little hurt by that, if not for the tell-tale signs of John’s flushing cheeks and his oddly lopsided grin that meant he was genuinely touched and more than a little flustered.  It wasn’t a sight that Bobby was treated to often, definitely not one John showed anyone else, and that alone was worth any amount of embarrassment Bobby had felt previously. 

            Better than a draw, Bobby chalked that up to a verifiable and all too rare win on his part, and because he was a good guy he wasn’t even going to gloat about it.  Too much.  Besides, he was tired and wanted to at least take a nap in case John decided soon that he was up for round two after all. 

            Sated, comfortable, and above all happy, Bobby bit his lip to keep from smiling too broadly when John rolled over to face him and tugged him close enough that they shared the same pillow.  It was a sweet gesture, even if it inevitably meant one of them would bitch later about having a stiff neck if they stayed that way.  Besides, Bobby wasn’t about to complain about John’s sleepy eyes watching him being the last thing he saw before he too fell asleep.

            Somewhere in that hazy twilight between sleep and consciousness, Bobby was dimly aware of John’s hand on his face and warm breath falling on his mouth.

            “Hey.”

            Not bothering to open his eyes but unable to hide a small grin, Bobby mumbled an order for John to go to sleep.  When that didn’t work, he asked, “What?”  The grin finally won out as he felt John’s mouth over his, tongue sliding easily between his lips and caressing his own with very slow, deliberate strokes.  Bobby loved John’s frenzied approach to just about everything in life, particularly his usually hard and fast approach to sex, but that just made him treasure these moments even more, when John gave in to some deeply buried part of himself that yearned for closeness, passion, love.  He’d never felt more ready to say it, which of course meant that the second he opened his mouth, John’s thumb slid across his lips, effectively silencing him.

            “Happy New Year, baby.”

            Bobby’s mouth closed again, a small, heartfelt smile replacing anything he might have been about to say.  John knew. 


End file.
